


Exit Wounds

by Clintbxrton



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, Warning this fic contains excessive amounts of angst and sad hobo bucky feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clintbxrton/pseuds/Clintbxrton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time it wasn't his fault...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Wounds

This time it was not his fault... this time the bullets were not from his gun.

It wasn’t his responsibility this time because this time it was not his fault that Captain America laid face down in the mud of a Canadian woodland, bleeding from the shoulder and chest. If asked, the Winter Soldier would be unable to answer; why? Why did he still take it upon himself to drag the Captain out of the mud and onto dry land? Why did he feel it was his duty to make sure that he didn’t croak? He could have used the moment to press his boot to the back of the Captain’s neck, slit his throat, shoot him between the eyes… at that moment, the Soldier could have silenced him forever. Why didn’t he complete his mission? 

He just couldn’t do it, couldn’t complete the mission; he was damaged, compromised, unknown territory and if HYDRA found him now, he knew they would hit the reset. He didn’t want that. But maybe it was for the best, easier because maybe if he didn’t know, didn’t hear the name he was supposed to have on loop through his mind constantly – James Buchanan Barnes – it wouldn’t be so hard to do what he felt needed to be done. He could follow the mission because the Captain would not matter; he would mean nothing. He wouldn’t be a part of the past he lost. He wasn’t that man anymore. James Buchanan Barnes died in the confines of a HYDRA camp when the 107th Battalion was captured all those years ago. He died again when he fell from the train. James Buchanan Barnes died a hero. The Winter Soldier was no hero.

Not a hero… just a lost soldier.

Now he had pulled Steve away, turned him to the right position so that he could breathe the clean air. He would heal; Super Soldiers healed well. He knew that. He knew what Steve was. 

It was time for him to face the drumming music, the pounding in his own head that reminded him of how long Steve and his metal-feathered friend had been searching for him. Ever since the bridge… the bridge had been the last time that the Winter Soldier had not only spared his life but saved it too. Except Steve didn’t know that, did he? The unconscious soldier may as well have merely washed up on shore from the tide’s own volition for all it truly mattered, for all the Captain knew. Bucky… the Winter Soldier, not Bucky. He wasn’t Bucky! He wasn’t… The Winter Soldier never intended to be seen. He was one step ahead and one step behind at all times and just as he had left the last time he left Steve to live, he intended to leave this time. 

“Buck?”

The soldier froze before turning. Steve was on his feet, braced for impact and watching, clearly expecting Bucky to mount some attack on him. The temptation was there. 

For a long moment, the Winter Soldier stood in silence, expression blank, and body tense but motionless, neither threatened or threatening. The stance remained until Steve relaxed out of his own defensive stance. The soldier remained silent but now moved slowly into an area closer to the running water of the nearby river. Then, with the usual speed that he had trained in, his knife was drawn to… to… Steve was defenceless… mission… No. No point saving him to kill him now. Quickly he cut a cloth from his own shirt and concealed the knife once more, letting a long breath free from his lips, controlled and yet still something between relief and exasperation. He dipped the cloth into the current, wetting it and then wringing out the excess before returning to Steve. He stood in front of him, knowing that there would be no protest. Not from Steve; he’d already promised not to fight him after all. 

“Don’t… don’t call me… that.” His voice was dry from disuse and there was a doubt in his mind that he was even speaking English and not the Russian tongue that he had come to know. His hand hovered over Steve’s skin, holding the cloth above his wounded shoulder. He knew him… he’d fixed him up before… at home, in an alleyway… he’d helped him before… Once upon a time.


End file.
